


in the shadows of your song

by Mononoke



Category: Chronicle (2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mentions of Character Death, Minor Violence, Post-Movie(s), Telekinesis, mundane uses of superpowers, suspend that disbelief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mononoke/pseuds/Mononoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Matt dreams it’s of caves that go on forever and shards of glass. Post-movie fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the shadows of your song

**Author's Note:**

> This is just complete indulgence on my part. The movie's timeline is still a bit of a mystery to me, so some of the details might be off. Apologies in advance. Despite the pairing tag, this is essentially gen fic.
> 
> Title taken from [Suburban War](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNdqoQWz34E) by Arcade Fire.

There’s nothing but the sound of wind roaring in his ears. Cold air stings his face, leaves him gasping as he tries to get a lungful. The night is clear and Matt flies, directionless, doesn’t stop til the lights of the city and the suburbs have well and truly faded from sight.

His legs go out from under him when he lands, and Matt has just enough awareness to pull up a barrier before his face hits the ground. There are pebbles under his hands, cool against his cheek, and from somewhere close by he hears water lapping at the shore. He doesn’t move from that spot. Lying there with his eyes closed seems like a good idea.

With the silence comes the memory of falling, of crashing through steel and concrete and glass, of the ground shaking with Andrew’s rage. Nausea crawls up Matt’s throat. He forces it back down, opens his eyes.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Rolling onto his back takes more effort than it really should; his body aches with every movement, and he can’t put any weight on his right hand, but finally he gets himself upright.

He was right about the water. It spreads out before him, merging with the night sky so that he can’t tell where it ends. Glancing back reveals a line of trees, rising up with the hill, a dark wall looming at the edge of his vision. Caught between them on the beach, the darkness becomes suffocating. His phone still sits in his jeans pocket. Even the meagre light it offers seems appealing.

He fumbles for his phone, remembers his injury too late and has to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. The effort leaves him shaking, breathing hard through his nose. His hand rests on his knee, limp, lying there like a dead fish. Every twitch of his fingers sends a jolt of pain through him. With a bit of wiggling he gets his phone out of his pocket, uses its light to peer at his hand. There’s still so much blood – the injury’s started bleeding again thanks to his carelessness – but through it all he can see the raw edges of flesh, the hollow where the bullet bit into his palm. If he didn’t know any better he’d think the wound was getting smaller.

The thought churns his stomach, so he looks to his phone to distract himself. There’s a few missed calls and one new voicemail message. He has no time to be surprised at the small number; with the press of a button the message starts to play.

“Hey, it’s mom. We just got a call from your uncle Richard … When you get this, could you call me back, please? Love you.”

Matt swallows against the lump in his throat. A part of him wants to call – right now, hearing a friendly voice seems better than anything he can imagine – but then he thinks of those news choppers, the SWAT team members, and all the cops who could have seen his face. How long before they track his cell, start monitoring his calls?

Matt looks down at the phone in his hand. He has to start somewhere if he wants to survive.

He lets the phone float from his grasp, keeps it hanging before him as he searches out the edges with his mind. Pressure builds at the back of his skull as he touches on screws and cables, connectors and plates, the motherboard and the battery. Then he _tugs_ , and the phone goes to pieces.

He scatters them over the trees and water alike as he launches into the air.

 

Matt lands two streets from his destination and then walks, head down, hood pulled up. Every shadow and parked car he passes is home to a potential threat, and his nerves are already thrumming. It’s nothing like the adrenaline that comes with flying; he feels sick and shaky, certain that his pulse is audible from the next suburb over. Keeping his legs steady requires real concentration.

The house is dark when he arrives, the driveway vacant. It only takes a moment for him to slide a window open and slip inside. His feet hit the floor with a dull thump. As he waits for his eyes to adjust Matt’s suddenly grateful that his dad never installed that home security system.

A note sits on the kitchen counter, roughly the same message that was left on his phone written on the page. Matt leaves it undisturbed and heads upstairs instead, down the hall and to his room. The lights stay off – he’s got the tingle of paranoia running up his spine to thank for that – and in the dim he can only just make out the posters on the walls, the mess of clothes covering the floor. Everything’s where it should be.

Standing there in the dark, surrounded by his things, the well of grief rising in his chest almost overwhelms him. His whole life is here. How can he just leave it behind?

Matt scrubs at his eyes, fingers coming away wet. “Shit.”

Better he do this now, before he thinks himself out of it.

Ducking down, he grabs a duffle bag from under his bed, pulls drawers and closet doors open with his mind as he starts rifling through his things. A flashlight, a lighter, a box of matches; all the money he can find, and his fake ID. The clothes go in next, a few pairs of jeans and some shirts, hoodies and his winter jacket, a spare pair of sneakers and whatever clean underwear’s around. The bag is disorganised and already a little too heavy, and he’s sure that there’s something important he’s forgetting. Then there’s his laptop, his mp3 player, the photos of friends and family, things he wants to take but shouldn’t. Coming back was risky enough.

The missing clothes won’t go unnoticed. Putting his room back in order probably isn’t necessary but he does it anyway. Passing by the bathroom, bag slung across his back, Matt catches his reflection in the mirror. Even without lights the cuts are obvious. He can’t go out like this.

The water washes away the blood easily enough – trying to bandage his injured hand is more of a challenge – and the little voice telling him that they’ll recognise his face no matter how well he cleans it goes mostly ignored.

Dark and empty as it is, saying goodbye to the house still churns his insides. That adrenaline-sick feeling returns as he paces the halls, his instincts urging him to move, to leave, even as he tries to memorise every inch of his home. Downstairs, the note on the counter is like a siren, tempting him to leave behind a message for his parents. They deserve that much at least.

Matt slides the window open instead, slips outside.

He leaves the way he came and doesn’t look back.

 

The kid behind the counter raises an eyebrow when he steps inside. Matt can’t fault him for that. He knows how late it is, and how he looks.

The motel reception is sparse. The walls and carpet are the same dull cream colour, and a few chairs sit off to one side. In the corner opposite is a coffee table with a few magazines and a copy of the _Flathead Beacon_. A pot plant sits on top of the front desk, where the young man behind it is watching him.

Perhaps he’s been quiet a bit too long, as the guy asks, “Can I help you?”

“I, uh,” he starts, stepping towards the desk, “I need a room. Please.”

“How many nights?”

Matt’s brain stalls at that. He feels his face go hot at the look his silence evokes, until he finds his words. “Five. Five nights.” The kid nods, and while he taps away at his keyboard Matt grabs some cash from his pockets. “I can pay upfront.”

The young man pauses, eyeing the money on the counter. “We’ll need some kind of identification.”

Matt hands over his fake ID. He has to actually hold onto the counter to keep from shifting nervously while the kid examines it. A few long seconds later he wheels his chair over to what looks like a photocopier – “Security purposes. For people paying with cash,” the kid says, seeing the confusion on Matt’s face – and when the machine’s finished spitting out a copy he hands the ID back.

“Alright. Checkout’s at noon. Here’s your key.”

His room is typical motel fare: papery bed sheets, a TV opposite the bed, yellowing bathroom tiles, the smell of a cleaning agent just a little too noticeable. Matt hangs the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his door, clicks the lock into place. Then he drops his bag by the bed and collapses onto it. The mattress is hard but his body sinks into it anyway.

Levitating the remote over isn’t even necessary. Face pressed into the bed, he switches the TV on from where he is. And immediately wishes he hadn’t.

The lack of new footage hasn’t hurt the news stations any. The shaky recordings from various cameras run on a near-constant loop, a news ticker following along underneath. Eventually the image changes, comes to focus on the anchors, looking as calm and professional as they can while they discuss the footage now sitting in the corner of the screen. Their voices are wordless drones at this point. Matt pushes himself upright, unable to look away.

Blurry as the picture is, he recognises Andrew in a heartbeat. It’s a silhouette of him more than anything, floating outside the Space Needle. A second figure enters the shot, and Matt’s stomach drops as he realises he’s watching himself. 

Even after the image fades Matt can see nothing else.

It starts with a shakily drawn in breath, a heat in his eyes; Matt pushes a hand against his chest but the ache keeps growing. The grief he’s been holding back since the beach finally hits him, clawing through his torso and up to his throat til he can hardly breathe. Andrew’s dead.

Andrew’s _dead_ , and he killed him.

Matt slumps forward, sobs wracking his body. His already abused muscles throb with the shaking of his form, a physical reminder, inescapable. Worse than the pain is the emptiness it brings. Where only hours before Andrew had been a presence in his head, impossible to ignore, now, there’s nothing. The severed connection feels tangible, like he’s a missing limb. It makes his stomach turn.

He’s not sure how long he’s been lying there by the time the tears stop. Washed out as he is, getting under the covers seems like an impossible task. The room is dark. Matt can’t remember when the light went out.

When he wakes up the TV informs him that he’s been asleep for three days, and he finds the room’s unused furniture hovering against the door and window, a makeshift barricade. There’s a tremor to his movements by the time he’s returned them to their proper spots. Sweat slick, Matt heads to the bathroom to wash up. In the mirror his reflection is clear, not a scab or scar in sight; where his gunshot wound should be the skin is pink, tender, and completely healed over.

The room’s technically his for a little while yet. Matt leaves that morning. He lifts the photocopy of his ID from the motel’s files before he goes.

 

“Nearly two weeks have passed since the so-called ‘Seattle Incident’.” The reporter enters the shot, looking respectable but still relatable in her smart shirt and pants. “While there’s been no official word regarding the identities of those involved, speculation is rampant. We asked our viewers to send in their theories, and among the _overwhelming_ number of responses we received, several came from students attending this high school in King County, Washington.” Over the woman’s shoulder the camera focuses on the school. “They claim that one of those involved in the incident was, in fact, a fellow student. Tonight, we continue our investigation.”

The image fades in on a girl. She seems familiar, though no name springs to mind. “You know how you get a feeling about people? It was like that with Andrew. Something about him just seemed … I don’t know, weird.”

“He was quiet.” Cut to a boy who could be a senior, sitting at a table in the library. “I don’t think he had any friends.”

The screen blinks out. When the image finally returns it’s focusing on two girls; pretty, likely popular. “He had this camera that he’d just, like, stick in people’s faces and stuff. I think someone caught him spying on the cheerleaders.” The girls look at each other. “It was creepy.”

“Andrew’s camera has not yet been recovered.” The reporter now stands on the bleachers, walks along them towards the camera. Static briefly distorts the picture. “We raised the question with the authorities, but they refused to comment. For the students of this school, closure is still out of reach.”

Cut back to the first girl that spoke. “It’s not like we could get justice or anything, y’know, since he’s …” She trails off, looking uncomfortable. “I just wish they’d say something. People should know the kind of person he was.”

The image flickers, dims, then dies completely. Matt blinks out of his daze. His fingernails are biting into his palms, and there’s a pressure in his head; he hadn’t even realised he’d been using his powers. He pushes every button on the remote, but the TV stays dark. Matt sighs.

Good thing this motel didn’t want a copy of his ID.

 

New York City seems like a place where he can disappear, though he spots security cameras nearly everywhere he looks. Unpleasant as it is, the cold gives him a reason to keep his hood up. Amidst a sea of others huddling into themselves to keep warm, he can’t look that suspicious.

Money is becoming an issue. He finds fewer and fewer bills in his pockets and his bag, and with the weather as cold as it is he has to prioritise accommodation over food and other amenities; he can’t remember the last time he washed his clothes, and the awkward beginnings of a beard itch his face. He’ll have to find a razor sometime soon. The first time he steals is in New York, a few pieces of fruit from a farmers’ market levitated into his bag when no one’s looking. Hunger makes a persuasive argument, though it doesn’t silence his guilt completely.

He’s been in the city for less than a week when he discovers an internet café. The hourly rates threaten to put a significant dent in his money, but even with his depleted funds, curiosity wins out. The place is emptier at night, marginally so. Matt chooses a computer and brings up everything he can find on the ‘Seattle Incident’. Open in another window is the Wikipedia article on Tibet.

He’s just finished reading about the repair work underway on the Space Needle – as well as the increased level of tourism experienced by the city – when he spots a link in the related articles: ‘Letter recalled for questioning’. He clicks it; the page, as well as a picture, loads.

Casey looks pale and ragged, her face turned towards the ground. Her mother is holding her by the shoulders, leading her away from the station, trying to shield her from the photographers surrounding them.

Matt tears his eyes away from the image, scrolls down to skim over the article.

> Casey Letter, one of the individuals involved in the ‘Seattle Incident’, was today recalled for questioning by the Seattle Police Department … Discovered by the wreck of her car outside the Space Needle … She was originally questioned after being admitted to hospital … Letter appeared distressed as she and her mother left the station … Officers in charge of the investigation declined to comment.

Matt closes the rest of the articles. He can’t bring himself to read any more.

The streets are nowhere near empty when he leaves. Matt watches the passersby, still not used to New York’s night life. He’s got a map of the city in his pocket, folds in the paper going white from the number of times he’s had to reference it. This time it goes ignored, and he wanders instead. It’s nearing midnight, and out away from the billboards and the tourists the darkness is more complete.

The attack comes before he can prepare for it. Someone grabs him from behind, throws him against the wall to his side. Matt barely brings his hands up in time, catches himself before his head smacks into the brick. A kick to his gut knocks him over, to his knees. Hunched over, trying to catch his breath, he manages to count three attackers.

“C’mon, man, c’mon!” one of them shouts, bouncing in place. The man closest to Matt hefts a crowbar, swings it up above his head and brings it down hard.

The blow never lands.

Matt has the briefest moment to appreciate the stunned look on the mugger’s face before he sends him flying. He hits the ground somewhere out of sight, the clang echoing down to them. The two remaining men whirl around, eyes wide.

“Shit!”

One of them starts running. Matt grabs him before he can escape, flings him into the wall. He slumps to the ground, head lolling against his chest. Turning to face the last mugger Matt instead finds a gun pointed at him. The man’s eyes are so wide the white is all but swallowing the colour, but his hands are steady. Three sharp cracks pierce the air.

Matt doesn’t fumble the catch this time.

The bullets drop from his palm, bounce harmlessly on the ground. His ears are aching from the sound of the shots; Matt stays down til the dizziness is mostly gone. When he looks up the man hasn’t moved. He stands there, frozen, as Matt staggers to his feet, yanks the gun from his slackened grip. It’s what snaps him out of his paralysis, sends him stumbling away. The man doesn’t get more than a few steps before Matt reaches out, lifts him into the air and holds him there. He might as well be weightless, it’s that easy keeping him suspended. Matt’s ears are ringing now, and there’s a pressure building in his head; he ignores it, keeps his focus on the man. How hard would he have to push to send him flying to the other side of the street? How long would he have to squeeze before he starts suffocating? Light from a passing car illuminates them, and in that brief moment Matt gets a look at his attacker.

The man’s on the verge of hysterics, flailing desperately with his arms and legs. He’s crying out, a constant stream of words: “Please, please, I’m sorry, don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.” Tears are running down his face.

The ringing in his ears fades, replaced by a growing horror.

Matt drops him.

He doesn’t stop to see if the man’s okay, if any of them are. He runs. People jolt his body as he bumps into them, knocking him off his aimless course. There are sirens in the air; he runs until he can no longer hear them and then slumps against the side of a building, trying to catch his breath.

His hood is down around his ears. The cold air stings his exposed skin. Did they see his face?

He has to leave.

His bag is already packed and sitting by the bedside table when he returns to his motel room. It’s a precaution he hasn’t allowed himself to fall out of. Paranoia has him questioning every move he makes, but this at least is something he can control.

As he picks up his bag, Matt glances at his surroundings. A wave of homesickness hits him out of nowhere, loneliness that leaves him hollow; the thought of his parents only makes it worse. Instead he thinks of his room, of the well-thumbed copy of _Beyond Good and Evil_ sitting on his desk, recalls the quote he’d decided to memorise before he’d finished reading it. He who fights with monsters …

He thinks of what he could have done and wants to be sick.

 

When Matt dreams it’s of caves that go on forever and shards of glass. Some nights he wanders endlessly, following the tunnel deep into the earth.

Other times he finds Andrew waiting for him.

His cousin is standing in the middle of the cave, staring up at the ceiling. Steve’s jacket hangs around his shoulders. There’s a massive crystal embedded in his chest. It glows impossibly blue, lighting up his face, and Andrew should be bleeding only he’s not. Matt calls out but gets no answer; Andrew doesn’t even look his way. Matt starts walking towards him and with each step pain flares in his right hand, growing sharper until he’s hunched over on the ground, unable to move. He isn’t any closer to Andrew than when he started.

It’s the bullet, Matt realises. He needs to get it out. Blood’s oozing from the wound and Matt digs his fingers into his palm, feels the flesh part as he searches, nerves screaming in protest. Briefly his nails scrape against a metallic edge but he can’t get a grip before it’s gone, disappearing deeper into his hand. Matt grits his teeth. How can that be possible?

Blue light falls over him then, and when he looks up Andrew’s there, within arm’s reach. This close he smells like rain and smoke; the combination makes something in Matt’s chest tighten painfully. Andrew looks from the wound to Matt, raises one hand. _I can help._ The ground shakes in time with the ringing in his ears, stone and glass shattering around them as the cave starts to collapse in on itself.

Andrew twists his wrist and --

Matt comes awake, choking on his own breath.

 

Casey’s street is quiet, well kept. That much has remained the same since the last time he was here. Matt’s sure that at any minute someone will look out their front window and realise he doesn’t belong, but it never happens. He keeps walking until he finds Casey’s house. The lawn is a little more overgrown, and the silver Beetle is a notable absence. Beyond that, everything looks the same. Matt doesn’t stop walking. On the way past he floats the letter to Casey’s window, doesn’t stick around to see if she finds it. He’ll know soon enough.

Cemeteries are gloomy even without the threat of rain hanging overhead. He can smell the coming storm, the rain that will soon be upon them. It seems far too much like something out of a film: a dramatic reunion with the clouds roiling up above. What does it say about him that a cemetery was the best option that came to mind? It can’t be good.

He arrives early enough to wander. The place is mostly empty, though not in a way that makes him suspicious; the few people paying their respects to the dead don’t even look at him as he passes by. After New York this silence, oppressive as it is, feels welcome. Matt covers enough ground that the names on the graves start melding into one. It startles him into stopping when he sees one that he recognises.

With just her name and the dates of birth and death on it, Karen Detmer’s grave seems bleak and lonely. For a moment Matt can only stare, mind blank, uncomprehending. When it finally starts to sink in it’s his mother he thinks of first. She’s lost a nephew, a son, and a sister, all in a matter of days. Is she coping?

Did Andrew know?

There’s a lump in Matt’s throat. He swallows hard against it, turns, and heads back to the meeting point. Steve’s grave is unoccupied when he gets there, save for some old flowers. He tries not to look. There’s still a little while until the meeting time, so he waits, keeping an eye on his surroundings. A few minutes later he glances over his shoulder, and that’s when he sees her.

She’s dressed in dark clothes, hat pulled down low, scarf almost up to her nose. She doesn’t seem out of place at all, just another mourner accounting for the weather, and she walks with confidence towards him. A thrill runs through him at the sight of her. Matt fights to bring his grin under control, turns to face her as she approaches.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Casey looks him over, eyes lingering on the dark jacket and the hoodie. Then she smirks. “Stealthy.”

“Could say the same to you,” he replies, nodding towards her. She rolls her eyes at him but otherwise doesn’t speak, and for a moment things are as awkward as they were at the start. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Thought you’d be on the other side of the world by now,” Casey says.

“I’ve been moving around a lot.”

“What brought you back?”

“There was this article …” Matt trails off. He knows the moment Casey realises what he’s referencing by the way her eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh. That.” Her cheeks are pink. Whether it’s from the cold or some emotion, he doesn’t know. “They, uh, took my site down. Confiscated my camera and all my footage.”

“Seriously? … Shit.”

“Yeah, well. Being censored by the government apparently gets you credibility.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and Matt doesn’t ask her to. “But you’re okay, right? You’re not hurt?”

Casey wraps her arms around her chest, hunching in on herself. “Don’t think I’ll ever look at the Space Needle the same way.” She pauses, brow furrowed, mulling something over. Her voice is quiet when she says, “They held a memorial for him at school, you know. The media outnumbered the students.”

The grief rising in his chest is nothing new, only now he feels it for her, too. Matt starts to reach for her but the motion dies halfway through. “I’m so sorry, Casey. I should have told you. I wanted to --”

“Don’t. Please.” She holds up her hands, placating. The corners of her mouth twitch upwards. “Think of it as plausible deniability.” Too quickly the happiness fades; she looks now like she did in that picture. “I’ve tried to not say anything, but they have to know about you, Matt, I don’t see how they couldn’t.”

“They probably do.”

“So what, then? What’re you gonna do?”

“Dunno,” he says, shrugging. At her confused expression he offers a small smile. “Plausible deniability, right?”

Casey actually laughs a little at that, and it’s a bit like winning the lottery. The silence that follows is surprisingly comfortable. Sharing space with someone after being alone for so long is a feeling worth cherishing.

Casey’s the one to end the moment. Digging into her bag, she pulls out a video camera and offers it to him. “Here.”

“What – no, Casey, I can’t --”

“I haven’t been able to film anything, since.” There’s a tremor to her voice. She fiddles with the camera, avoiding his gaze. When she finally looks at him again he can see some of her old confidence shining through. “Maybe you’ll find a use for it.”

It’s with some uncertainty that he takes the camera. It’s a sleek model: clear screen, internal hard drive. It reminds him of Andrew’s. A possession unrelated to his immediate survival: it feels out of place in his hands. Casey looks pleased, though, and he’s not about to ruin that.

They hug, then. Matt doesn’t want to hold her too tightly, and Casey seems reluctant to stay in his embrace. It’s awkward, but why wouldn’t it be? Murmured against skin are things like “good luck” and “I’ll miss you”; Matt’s throat is tight, and he can feel tears soaking through his hoodie. When they finally pull apart Casey leans up, kisses him on the cheek, whispers goodbye in his ear. Then she turns and walks away.

 

Matt says goodbye to Andrew on a mountain in Tibet.

He doesn’t get there right away. Leaving the States feels like leaving a part of him behind, even though he can’t rightly stay; he’s pushed his luck enough already. In the end it’s a bit of an anti-climax. Matt launches into the air, picks a direction, and flies. Within minutes the land is replaced by sea.

The world is both smaller and larger than he ever imagined it could be. It’s hard for him to think of the earth as being big when he can cross between continents in barely any time at all. On the other hand there are just so many people, each living with their own problems, that it almost overwhelms him. Some of them he can help – a kid he can pull from the path of a truck, a mugger he can grab before he strikes his victim – and it’s the greatest feeling in the world when he succeeds, but there’s always a little voice in his head, reminding him not to lose himself. In his mind, New York has joined Seattle on the list of places linked with his powers. It’s something he can’t help but think of, a measure to hold to when he uses them.

His dreams continue, raising more questions than they ever answer. They’re starting to pile up in his head, and he picks at them like one would a scab.

He’s somewhere in South Korea. He doesn’t know how long it’s been; time lost its meaning a while ago. Scrounging through his bag, Matt’s hand brushes against cool plastic, and with some surprise he brings out the camera. He hasn’t used it since Casey gave it to him. A video diary is unappealing, and everything else he’s thought to film has ended up too personal, too distant, too inappropriate. There has to be something. What did Andrew use it for?

There, at that moment, he knows what he can do.

It takes a little wrangling to get the right gear together. Eventually he makes it up there, flies until he’s found just the right spot. Cold air biting at his face, Matt sets up the camera, hits record.

Maybe one day somebody will find it; maybe they’ll know who he’s speaking to.

As he flies away the camera slowly grows more distant in his mind, until he can’t feel it at all. It’s as though a weight’s been lifted from him. For the first time in a long while, he feels free. Matt lets that mountain in Tibet fade back into his mind, thinks of his future instead.

He’s got work to do.


End file.
